


My Love to Keep Me Warm

by fadewithfury (foxmoon)



Category: Broadchurch, Secret Diary of a Call Girl (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Christmas, Courtship, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, Love Confessions, Murder Mystery, Mutual Pining, Romance, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-09-14 15:04:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9187607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxmoon/pseuds/fadewithfury
Summary: Christmas eve, 1845. Hardy has become so obsessed with solving the murder of a young girl that he has forgotten the world around him. When ghosts from his past emerge to shed light on what was, is, and could be, will he find it in himself to change his ways? A Christmas Carol AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by the song "I've got my love to keep me warm."
> 
> Fic inspired by 'A Christmas Carol' by Charles Dickens. I am definitely not an expert on this era so all mistakes are mine in that regard.
> 
> Thank you to lostinfic for the beta. <3
> 
> FYI: Gloria is Bambi's real name.

_London, Christmas Eve, 1845_

 Hardy slammed the case file on his desk. “How could they’ve bloody missed that!”

 Ellie had become so used to his outbursts that she barely flinched. “They’re overworked, sir. Haven’t had a day off in four weeks.”

 “And you! You contaminated evidence! What’s your excuse, then?”

 She did flinch at that, but a keen desperation to see her children kept her brazen in the face of his anger.

 “With all due respect, sir, you’ve had me working the case four days straight! I haven’t eaten since yesterday morn, on top of everything else--don’t look at me like that, you bloody know what I’m talking about!” She pointed right at him. His look of bemusement at her confrontation bolstered her confidence. “And you know as well as I do that the evidence wouldn’t amount to anything in court. It may not occur to you, but I know what the hell I’m doing around here. I took a risk, and yes, perhaps it was a bad decision, but I’ll take the blame if I bungled things. But I don’t think I did. I happen to think it’ll help us in the long run, but you’re too stuck in your own head to consider that you’re not the only one who wants desperately to help this family!”

 “Miller, I… she was a child. An Innocent--”

 “Listen, I know you feel a personal stake in this, and my heart does ache for her family, and for you, but we’ll get nowhere if we’re too deprived of sleep to function.”

 Hardy pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. He turned away, stared out of the window to the snowy London streets illuminated by the gas lamps below. Though swathed in shadow, she didn’t have to see his face to recognize how much pain he held inside.

 Moved by his silence, she continued with a gentler tone. “It’s Christmas eve, sir.”

 “So?” he snapped, though without his previous bluster.

 “Let me go home. I haven’t seen my little Fred in days, and you know he’s ill. _Please_.” She tried as hard as she could to keep the quiver out of her voice, but it was no use. She gripped her skirt to fight the tears. Her family would never be the same after what her husband did to them. Every moment with her children was more precious than she could bear.

 “Go.”

Ellie sank into her relief and wiped her eyes in case he turned around. “Oh, thank you! God bless you, sir.”

“Leave! Before I change my mind.”

She hurriedly slid on her frock coat, grabbed her winter bonnet from the stand and tied it under her chin.

“Happy Christmas, Hardy.”

“Bah,” he said with a dismissive wave.

Before Ellie closed the door to leave him to his misery, she added: “She’d want to see you again. Maybe pop by?”

His head lowered, but he said nothing more. Not even a sigh.

///

Hannah stood by the window to watch the snowfall in the light of the street lamps. Few walked by at this hour, bundled head to toe on their way to wherever. A gentleman with snowflakes on this top hat and shoulders. Ladies with hand muffs--their bustles swaying and skirts swishing patterns in the snow.

Her family laughed in unison, and glasses clinked together in the dining room. Christmas Eve brought everyone together - her sister and her brother-in-law. Their young child. Her aunts, uncles, and cousins. She left them to their pudding and brandy so she wouldn’t have to endure more questions about why she’s had so many suitors, and yet turned down every proposal. The thick, brocade draperies of the parlour window offered some shelter from it all, but it didn’t stop them whispering.

_‘She’s still ever so fair, but her age is showing in that jaw.’_

_‘Does she pluck her brows? Perhaps the gentlemen find them too severe.’_

_‘Have you taken her to the physician to make sure she’s still - you know. Men don’t like that in a bride.’_

Hannah tried to ignore them. What she did with her body felt like it should be none of their concern, yet they spoke of it as though she were a piece of furniture. Carved to elegance with cold, yet careful discipline, and hand-painted in a manner most appealing to whichever prospective buyer showed interest. Secretly, she adored it all. Beautiful gowns, lavish balls, gifts bestowed upon her by suitors who were perfectly content with taking her to bed in lieu of taking her hand in marriage.

She returned her focus to the street below, and gasped softly.

A solemn figure strode by on the other side of the street. She’d recognize his gait, his posture anywhere. Tall, narrow, and ever so slightly slumped under the weight of his melancholy. Mr. Hardy, the only man for which she had ever, in the safety of her own mind, entertained the notion of marriage. She knew he’d inherited his family’s summer house up the street not long ago, but this was the first time she had seen him in years.

Hardy stopped by the pâtisserie, just within the halo of the street lamp. He turned slightly, appeared to look toward her family’s home, high and low. She pressed her fingertips to her lips, oh how she had missed that face. Then his gaze settled on the parlour window where she stood. Her breath quickened--could he see her? No doubt as a mere silhouette, and perhaps the curtain obscured his view of her.

But did he hope to?

She froze, unsure of which action to take. A multitude of options unfolded like a labyrinth, but none of them were appropriate for a lady of her upbringing. How would it appear if she ran out into the bitter cold just to say hello? Her heart was wild as a rabbit’s in the shadow of a hawk’s wing, but then he turned and continued on his way home.

///

Hardy arrived home a few minutes past midnight. After hanging his hat and coat, he made a cup of tea and went to his desk to read the day’s paper by candlelight. When it did nothing to clear his mind, he sorted through a stack of old papers. Ones he’d collected from the fortnight surrounding the current victim’s murder. Sometimes he’d find clues hidden between articles, and at this point he’d do anything for a lead in the case, especially after so many mistakes by his team.

The crime held all the same marks as the one that took his sister, Helen, from his life when he was a lad - a young girl vanished from her bedroom in the middle of the night. Found murdered a few streets over in a narrow alley. Her slight frame half buried in a fresh snowdrift, dressed and posed like an angel with her tiny hands clasped in prayer on her chest. It was the very same.

He’d never forget how all happiness fled from the world after that day. His parents were never the same. Their deep sadness transformed into anger. They rowed and imbibed, and eventually divorced. He was sent to a boarding school, because his mother had become too sick with grief to care for him. All of that would happen all over again to another family if he couldn’t solve this case.

The papers held nothing of use. He folded up the last one and tossed it to the pile, which scattered a few loose article clippings across his desk. He almost didn’t bother with tidying up, until one particular article caught his eye. He stared at it, and turned it toward himself slowly.

_On the eve of Christmas the noble Constable Jacob Marley died a hero at 35 years old. He is survived by his wife and their two young children, may God watch over them. Marley’s death at the hands of a criminal suspect did not go unavenged. Detective Sergeant Alec Hardy--_

Hardy stopped reading. Tonight marked the seventh anniversary since his death. Jacob Marley, his partner and the only friend from his youth that hadn’t abandoned him. Hardy had helped him get a job in London, and since he knew of what happened to Hardy’s sister, he’d been the sole person willing to help him reopen her murder case.

He set the article down, and stared beyond the candle’s glow. It would seem this was his night for entertaining ghosts from his past. Two years prior to Marley’s death, they had both fallen in love with the same woman. _Hannah._ Clever, coquettish, and sophisticated. The bonnie youngest daughter of Mr. Niall Baxter, a wealthy London financier. He thought he’d seen her shadow in the window of their manor on his way home, but he couldn’t be sure. She had a sister, and cousins, who were likely there for Christmas.

Miller’s words played over in his mind. _She’d want to see you again._ Sometimes he wished she’d never found out about Hannah.

The candle flickered and went out as if snuffed by a phantom breath. Unnerved, and a wee bit alarmed, he peered through the darkness and listened for any other oddities until his eyes adjusted. He heard a faint knocking sound, like someone at the door. Then it stopped.  When he tried to relight the wick, it wouldn’t catch. He glanced down to see the image of his friend staring back at him from the obituary page, gaunt and ghostly in the darkness. Hardy could almost hear his voice, warning him as he had done before he died in his arms.

_‘See? Told you this case would kill me someday. Don’t let it happen to you. Don’t forget to live your life. Do ya hear me?’_

He squeezed his eyes shut and pushed his specs up as he buried his face in his hands.

“All right! God’s sake. I’ll go to sleep.”

The ghosts followed him, much to his despair, straight into his dreams.

///

Hannah retired to her chambers after helping Jacqueline, her sister, put her little one back to bed. He’d awoken one too many times, claiming to hear ghostly chains in the attic. Now Hannah stood before the looking glass, painted lips pressed in a pensive line. Her lady’s maid, Gloria, finished loosening the crinoline, and Hannah stepped out of it with a sigh.

“May I ask what occupies your mind, my lady,” Gloria asked.

“Do you think I’m a good person?”

“Of course, miss. Why do you ask?” Gloria responded as she unlaced Hannah’s bodice.

“I’ve no friends. They’re either married and gone, or they bore me to tears with gossip. The ones I like, don’t like me. Or they’re men.” Hannah sat at her vanity once her constricting garments had been shed. She watched Gloria for a moment as she carefully removed the pins and combs from her hair. “I consider you my friend.”

Gloria ran a brush through Hannah’s hair with a smile. “That pleases me, miss. If I may be so bold--I consider the same of you.”

“What’s to like about me, then?”

“You’re always kind to me. To the other maids and staff. You’re enjoyable company, immensely so. Why do you think so many men call on you? You’re smart without losing your charm. You know what you like and you won’t put up with anything you don’t, be it a book or a man. And…” She paused as happiness overcame her and a blush lit up her cheeks. “You gave me spot on advice about Byron.”

Hannah’s smile broadened at the sight of her friend’s blush. “You can stop now,” she said with a laugh. “Let’s not talk about me a second further.” She stood, and grasped Gloria’s hand. “Tell me everything.”

Gloria laughed. “Oh, miss, I shouldn’t keep you up too late.”

“Crikey, was it that good?”

“Better than. Not that I have a comparison.” She did her best to hide a yawn, but Hannah spotted it straight away.

“It is getting late.”

Gloria gave a nod. “Sorry, miss.”

“Thank you for coming with me to London. I know it’s Christmas…”

“I don’t mind. I’m taking a few days off for the new year.” She gathered up Hannah’s gown for stowing away. “Lady Hannah, if you don’t mind me asking… who was it you saw outside earlier?

Hannah looked askance, toying with the long rope of her hair that rested over her shoulder. “I thought it was someone I knew from years ago.”

“Someone you fancied, miss?”

She shrugged a shoulder, but her mind had been lost to memory. “I’m not meant to have a Byron, I don’t think.”

///

The first dream brought Hardy back to the distant past, an era he often avoided to think about. The melody of a piano filled his mind - his sister, Helen, practicing for a Christmas concert. She was nine years old, and terribly bothersome to his twelve-year-old self. She kept making mistakes, and he’d suggest she give up. Now he’d do anything to have been able to attend her concert, off-notes and all, instead of her funeral.

Before grief swallowed him whole, the dream shifted. Aristocrats and social elites flooded Trafalgar Square. The recently installed fountains caught glimmers of sunlight, fascinating onlookers.  Young women gathered together outside of the Royal Academy before the start of the Summer Exhibit. They were demurely poised with parasols, a prime opportunity for wealthy families to attract suitors for their daughters.

Hardy saw himself amongst the crowd. This, too, was no dream, but try as he might, he couldn’t awaken. Nine years ago he’d gone with his father, who was there to initiate courtship with Hannah, whom he hoped to marry and secure his financial status. Hardy found it all rather grotesque--his father was sixty-five and Hannah nineteen. He’d spent far too much time around the working class by that point, opting to become a police constable instead of following in his family’s real estate lineage. He suspected it was a last ditch effort by his father to entice him back into the family business.

It nearly worked. The dream showed him that entire sequence - of his father approaching Hannah. Of Hannah reciting practiced lines with warmth and grace, and looking beyond him to catch Hardy’s eye instead. Her smile faltered for a brief moment. She fluttered her fan, and the exchange between Hannah and his father went awry somehow. At the time, he had no idea what they said as it had been so obtuse and indirect that he might as well have been listening to riddles. An eager old man and a vapid, irritating socialite going on about the weather. But now he understood: she had refused the request. She fancied him instead.

Later that afternoon, as everyone perused the new pieces on display at the gallery, he found Hannah gazing at an evocative, vaguely erotic painting. She was alone, and he wondered if she might not be as hollow as she seemed at first. He approached her cautiously, knowing there was some etiquette about speaking to a woman of her status, but not recalling what it was.

She didn’t seem to mind. To his surprise, she brightened at his company. They walked together through the remainder of the gallery, getting to know one another through their mutual fascination or disdain of the artwork surrounding them. When he confessed that he wasn’t some stodgy heir to an obscure earl or lord, she hadn’t found an elaborate way to lose him in the crowd. It made his heart flutter incessantly, how she’d smile at him, and how she’d stand so very close.

“I’m a constable,” he admitted.

“Is that what you want to be?”

Her voice was as lovely in his dream as it had been that day. Flashes of the weeks and months thereafter poured over his sleeping mind. Chance encounters that were perhaps not so chance. Mysterious invitations he’d received to her family’s lavish parties, that she knew he couldn’t attend, and yet were apparently indication of her attraction to him. Public gatherings where they could both disappear near the hedgerows or architectural embellishments. He’d introduced her to Jacob when she wondered who led the search for a notorious criminal that preyed upon young servants.

Abruptly, the dream changed again. He felt bereft, until the new dream came into focus. A Christmas party a year later held by one of the wealthiest families in London. She danced with Hardy that night, and he almost told her how he felt. She also danced with Marley, who _had_ told her how he felt, and by the end of the night neither of them could be found.

 

_...to be continued..._

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trope: Friends to Lovers  
> Beta: Lostinfic <3
> 
> I haven't read much Victorian literature since high school, so I had to do a bit of research for this. Thanks for your patience! Part 3 will be the last, and will be much shorter.

Hannah often found solace in stories on sleepless nights. When books didn’t help, she would turn to the tales in her own mind. And so, once Gloria had put away her gown and retired for the night, Hannah sat at her writing desk with pen in hand. She’d only written a few lines when the snow outside reached a crescendo of flurries. It made her long for summer, and the way broken sunlight would dance on the grass below the shade of trees. **  
**

But not just any trees. Her foolish mind conjured specific trees—oak and silver birch—in a specific park just outside of London proper. The ever-present titter of children in the distance, and waterfowl calling from the nearby lake brought the memory into a full vision. Before her, in this memory, stood a rather specific man. Mr. Hardy, slim and tall, with his dark police tunic—new inspector rank insignia on its epaulets.

Oh, why had she gazed out of the window the very moment he wandered past? Now her head was filled with him, when for the longest time it had locked him away.

That summer had brought them close once again after her lengthy holiday abroad on the heels of Jacob Marley’s death. Indeed, she had loved Marley, but no more than she had loved other men. But, Alec Hardy, on the other hand... Ever since she first met him that day at the museum, Mr. Hardy had proven to be a force for her heart to be reckoned with. Had her affection for him become so much more profound in the absence of forthright confession? Would her heart someday grow bored with him as well? And so, she chose to test the impermanent potential of her own passions with a confession.

They’d been on a stroll through this park after a ballooning event. Her heart fluttered at the memory of the colourful globes held aloft by frightening bursts of flame. She caught him gazing, not at the spectacle before them, but at her. At the sight of his reddened cheeks, she invited him to traverse the romantic pathway that meandered from the green through the landscaped trees.

Hannah paused at a quaintly arched bridge over a little stream. The babble of water over stones and the beauty of their surroundings gradually diffused their conversation. He stood so close to her that she could detect the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. She’d given him ample opportunity to say something first, but when he hadn’t—

“I delight in your company, Inspector Hardy.”

He smiled with a downward tilt to his head. “Which has always been a mystery to me.”

“Oh, tosh. I should say the same of your interest in idling about with me. Your disdain for my leisurely lifestyle is well documented.” She gave him a flirtatious smile, hoping he’d know she meant no ill will.

He chuckled, but kept it in his throat as though even his happiness shouldn’t be allowed to escape. “I suppose fondness enables us to overlook our inherent flaws.”

“Fondness? Alec Hardy, I love you.”

The wind sifted his hair as he finally met her eyes in bewildered silence. He gripped his inspector cap so tightly he might’ve crushed it. “What?” he said at last. “Truly?”

Hannah smiled and slid a wayward strand of hair behind her ear as she searched his puzzled expression to find the eagerness brimming under the surface.

“Is it not obvious? I found every opportunity to see you. I wrote you. Invitations, letters...hints were therein, though I know lofty language eludes you.” She paused, expecting him to interject with a quip or a sigh. When he had no rebuke, she pressed onward. “I defended you as a man of honor and integrity when the papers tried to slander your efforts to instate an order of detectives with the metropolitan police. I’ve loved you for so long, even when I tried to love someone else, my heart kept reminding me of you.”

Hardy’s brows met, and his every breath trembled. One of his hands moved toward hers on the bridge rail, but then he looked away and shuffled his feet. “Clearly I’m not the best at detecting whether I’m loved.”

She reached for his hand and stroked along his wrist with her thumb. “And I’m not the best at detecting whether you love.”

His eyes closed. He swallowed, and his fingers flexed into her touch. After letting out a shaky breath, his expression darkened, and still he would not look up. He withdrew his hand. “Perhaps there’s reason for that, my lady.”

She stiffened. “Oh.” She pressed her hand to her stomach as the world felt it might spin right out from under her. “I-forgive me.”

“What? You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s I who—”

“You have fondness for me, but don’t return my ardour—that explains the lot of it.” Her words shook, but she held her ground even as the gallant trees surrounding them transformed into cold, looming observers to her humiliation. “I’m so—I’m sorry I assumed.” She clenched her teeth to force away the threat of tears.

He opened his mouth, and a sort of confused indignance crossed his features, but his mouth snapped shut and he drew in a deep breath. Dimples formed in his cheeks, his mouth flattened into a thin line, and he slid his uniform cap upon his head.

“No, Lady Hannah, forgive me for misleading you. I value our friendship, but we dwell in different worlds. It should stay that way.”

“What? Whatever do you mean by that? Are you an invert?” Perhaps he’d been in love with Marley all this time, and that was why he remained a bachelor since his death. It would also explain his avoidance of them during their courtship.

“No. I’m-I’m not,” he replied gently. “I refer to class, my lady.”

Hannah sighed. “Indeed. Your family works hard and values moral integrity, mine’s a lazy aristocratic holdover from an era of extravagance and promiscuity. We’ve had this debate before, darling.”

He gave her a pained look, and for a hopeful moment she thought he may be covering his true feelings with this contrivance.

“My personal convictions and obligation to protect the citizens of this city are important to me. I don’t have time to spare for outdated frivolities when workmen are forced into intolerable conditions for meagre wages, and murderers of innocent children are loose on the streets at night.”

Hannah stared down the anger that flashed in his eyes until it shifted into apologetic desperation. Her confusion doubled, as did her turmoil. She could only conclude that if he ever loved her, she could never measure up to his expectations.

“I’ve vexed you… please forgive me. But know this: you may have chosen this noble path, but like me, you still possess power in this society. Perhaps more so, given that you’re a man. Do not feel that you’re so far above me, when paupers wouldn’t dare hope to have the same lot in life as you.” She turned slightly from him. “Your guard is no doubt needed back at the balloon race. God be with you, Inspector Hardy.”

Hannah turned and walked away.

“Hannah, I-”

 _Keep walking. Don’t stop._ In that stretch of exquisite nature that had once been a marsh, a burial ground for lepers, a haunt for highwaymen, she bore her love and then buried it to rest with the other ghosts.

Hannah carried on in her affairs without an ounce of pining. She refused to waste energy on a man who wouldn’t, or couldn’t, return her love. Whilst they had met a few times in the years hence, it was under the pretense of friendship, and so that she could offer financial or strategic support to his noble endeavours. Some part of her never stopped wanting to prove to him that there was more to her than silk corsets and lavish parties.

No energy wasted, until this eve, as it were. Hannah shoved away the loose pages of her story as the raw force of reawakened desire imbued her with fresh anger. She cursed to discover ink from her pen had bled all over her fingertips during her daydream. She blotted with a cloth, and sought a blank sheet.

_Christmas Morning, 3 o’clock, 1845_

_Dear Inspector Hardy,_

She hesitated on the next line. A yawn overcame her, and she glanced at her bed. If morning arrived and she still felt an urge to write him, she would do it then.

///

Hardy watched from afar in stony silence as Hannah hastened away from the gutless, thickheaded fool. _From himself_. It hadn’t been until the emotion drained from her face that he realised his words had come out wrong. Very wrong, and callous indeed. He’d meant his life’s circumstances made it difficult for him to be so forthright about his feelings. She’d taken it to mean that he didn’t love her. But he hadn’t corrected himself, or attempted to reassure her. At the time, he thought it for the best that she presumed he only cared for her as a friend. How could he let anyone into his heart after all he’d lost?

The memory-dream flickered and skipped, replayed the vision of Hannah walking away from him. Fair amber ringlets swaying down her back. Peach satin skirts with ivory lace held up to keep from dragging the ground. Blue ribbons aflutter from her bonnet. All the brightness, anticipation, and joy she inspired, gone.

Hardy cried out to whatever demon had its claws in his mind. Try as he might to jostle his limbs or open his eyes, he lay there paralyzed as flashes of his life consumed by work and devoid of warmth persisted. He saw his mother and father boarding a carriage as he looked on from the boarding house window. He saw himself as a youth, astute and disciplined, but always alone. He saw his mother die with Helen’s name upon her lips, Jacob Marley’s tombstone, the lifeless wee victims of his current case. When it felt as though his heart might erupt, at last he shook himself awake.

Hardy stared into the darkness of his bedchamber and gasped for air. The house groaned from blustery winds and branches tapped his window like skeletal fingers. Floorboards popped in the attic, a curtain fluttered up, stirred by a draft from the window. All of this proved to prolong his cold sweat and anxious heart. He got out of bed to close the small gap in the windowsill, and paused to peer outside.

Snow fell briskly. He watched it swirl in the gusts, and an odd, disorientating feeling overcame him. He caught a flicker of light in the glass, which he thought was outside, but it revealed to be instead a reflection from inside his room. When he turned, he was no longer alone. In fact, he was no longer in his house at all. He startled and gripped his chest in fright as he took in his new, unfamiliar surroundings.

A small room with soot-stained wooden floors, a table, and a hearth. Two children sat at the table - he recognised them. Fred and Tom Miller. They had a chunk of bread between them, and a single candle. Ashes crackled in the hearth and shed brittle warmth as the boys said their prayers. A tatty mattress lay in a corner, upon which slept an unwell elderly man — Miller’s father. 

How in God’s name did he get here? In his dressing gown, no less? But they appeared to not notice his presence at all, much like in the dreams about his past.

“Can I please have just one bite?” asked little Fred. Oh dear, he looked so unwell. Dark circles laced his eyes, and his skin had a sallow colour.

“Mum’ll be home any minute. You’ll see. It’s Christmas,” Tom replied.

“She hasn’t been home in days.”

Hardy frowned as a deep regret swelled in his chest. In a sense, he’d been perpetuating the very behaviours that he despised in the wealthy factory owners. But how could he be certain whether this was not some phantasm conjured for him, or if it was a window into reality? Indeed, it had to be a dream. He’d awoken from one dream and landed right in another.

The door opened, and Ellie practically blew in with a gust of wind. Snowflakes danced in the little currents as she closed the door, and the candlelight danced erratically.

“Fred! Tom!”

“MUM!” Fred grabbed his walking stick and hurry-hobbled over to Ellie. She knelt down to hug him tight.

“My darlings, I’m so happy to see you.”

Tom joined them and helped his mother stand as her hands were full. Ellie dug around in her satchel and produced two gifts to hand to each of her children. Hardy’s stomach sank like a lead weight. He stepped forward, compelled to say something, but the scene slipped away, replaced by others that were unfamiliar.

When the hellish roulette in his mind settled on his next vision, a menacingly tall figure with a cowl and long robes stood before him. The figure’s face couldn’t be seen within the shadow of the cowl, and a coil of fear began to tighten in Hardy’s chest. Was this it? Had death finally come to claim him in the midst of horror?

The figure’s head turned, slow, deliberate, toward a group of men at the bar of a pub. Hardy recognized them as a sergeant and constables under his watch. They appeared older than he recalled, with lined faces and grey overtaking their beards. But… how? He’d been so transfixed by the presence of the spectre that he hadn’t realized the surroundings changed.

“Cheers to the poor bastard,” the sergeant lifted his pint. “It’s unfortunate, it is.”

“Bugger tha', s’a gift! Himself’s a miserable, bleedin’ arsehole.”

The sergeant elbowed him. “I were gettin' ‘round to that.”

The men laughed, pints sloshed, and they moved on to a round of gin. One of the constables jeered at a woman who had stopped by the pub with her son to fill a tankard for home. The other constable joined in, and the little boy watched, his eyes fearful, as his mother endured the harassment.

Hardy clenched his fists and made as if to command them to stop their insolence, but his voice could not permeate the dream-veil between them. Drunk on duty — something he vehemently disallowed. It was what set his constabulary apart from so many others rife with corruption. The poor woman did nothing to garner their torment, and in front of her lad, no less. When she left, they began roughing up a young man and his friend who had been minding their own business.

“Do something! If I can’t stop this, can’t you?” Hardy demanded of the phantom. “ _Please_?”

The Phantom turned away from the scene and pointed. Hardy followed the gesture with his eyes, and in a blink, they were no longer in a pub, but in a graveyard. A slab of stone lay over a fresh grave. A woman in a voluminous black mourning gown stood near, almost unseen amid the evening shadows. He heard her sniffle, and saw a flash of fair amber-gold hair beneath her black veil as she turned to depart.

Dread permeated his very soul. He shivered and drifted like a marionette on Death’s strings toward the stone. He read the inscription and fell to his knees.

_Alec Hardy. May he know peace at last._

“No,” he rasped.

He stared around, bewildered, as the graveyard and the pub merged into the same scene, so it appeared as though his shrouded corpse lay upon the bar, ignored.

“And I say it serves ’im right. Bloody Chartist,” said a constable.

What had happened? How had he met his end? He clawed at the ground to rise to his feet, but he staggered like a ship tossed about by a tempest.

“Please, _please_ , I beg of you! Release me!” Hardy cried to the pub, to Death, to the devil himself.

Then, with a great gasp of air, he jolted awake from his slumber. Morning light flooded his bedchamber. He shielded his eyes at first, and then flung the covers aside. His stomach churned and his head swam. Little white spots danced before his eyes. He drew in a series of steadying breaths, and it took several minutes until he felt well enough to stand.

He understood now. It was penance, and he had work to do. First on his list, Lady Hannah. Without further tarry, he went straight for his writing desk, and penned a letter he should’ve written long ago.

_Christmas Morning, 1845,_

_Dearest Lady Hannah:_

_I understand that you may find it alarming to receive this letter from me after so long. Please forgive me, for I do not intend to intrude or cause pain, but only to convey my deepest regret that I not only inflicted great offense upon you, but I was not honest in my feelings. I find that I’m at a loss for how to convey my love in written words, and would implore you to meet me at the bridge where we last spoke of such matters so that I may correct my most egregious error._

_I will be there at two o’clock this Saturday. It’s not expected of you to profess that you have any affection for me. I will understand with utmost sincerity if you should decide to ignore my request all together. Please know that regardless, if you should find it agreeable, I would be elated to have you once more in my life as a friend._

_Yours with fondness,_

_Alec Hardy._

_(to be continued)_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trope: Friends to Lovers  
> Beta: Lostinfic <3

_December 26th, 1845_

Hannah entered the drawing room where her mother, Lady Claudia, offered her an assortment of letters. She sifted through the lot, most of them calling cards or post from family abroad except one that caught her eye. Folded stationery with her name on the front, and a small red seal above which was written: _From A. Hardy_.

“That one was delivered this morning prior to first post, I’m told,” said Lady Claudia.

“Alec,” Hannah said, wistful. She noted that there was no postage stamp on the surface. “Did he deliver it himself?”

“You’ll have to ask a footman, darling,” she answered distractedly. The butler had just ushered a visitor into the room. A distant uncle, Hannah recognised. He cast a wary glance around from face to face, squeezed his hat against his chest, and bowed low to Lady Claudia.

Hannah returned her attention to the letter in her hand. A thrill coursed through from her heart to the pit of her stomach and back again so that she no longer could discern if she felt excitement or anxiety. He loathed the snow, and yet he braved icy patches and uncleared drifts to deliver his letter. It certainly answered her question that he had seen her at the window the eve before. She began to pry up the sealing wax.

“Oh! God in heaven!”

Hannah’s attention snapped to her mother, who had turned white as a sheet with her mouth agape. One of the cousins was quick to assist her to a lounge seat, and her father, Lord Baxter, led the uncle to the library adjacent to the drawing room.

Hannah rushed to her mother’s side, attention riveted upon the conversation her father held with the uncle just beyond the threshold the rooms shared. Her sister, Jacqueline, opened a fan and wafted cool air to keep her mother from swooning. Father returned to the drawing room looking grim.

“Grandmama Caroline has fallen ill, and the prognosis is dire. We must travel to Berkshire at once,” said father. At his words, the servants assumed an air of urgency, and began making arrangements for the family to travel on the next train out of London.

Lady Claudia stifled her sobs and hid her face from everyone. Jacqueline and Hannah fought tears as they did their best to comfort her. Lord Baxter remained silent, or instructed servants with a gravity appropriate for the situation. setting the tone for the others in the room.

At last, Hannah returned to her chamber so that she could read Alec’s letter in private.

_Christmas Morning, 1845,_

_Dearest Lady Hannah:  
_

_I understand that you may find it alarming to receive this letter from me after so long. Please forgive me, for I do not intend to intrude or cause pain, but only to convey my deepest regret that I not only inflicted great offense upon you, but I was not honest in my feelings. I find that I’m at a loss for how to convey my love in written words, and would implore you to meet me at the bridge where we last spoke of such matters so that I may correct my most egregious error.  
_

_I will be there at two o’clock this Saturday. It’s not expected of you to profess that you have any affection for me. I will understand with utmost sincerity if you should decide to ignore my request all together. Please know that regardless, if you should find it agreeable, I would be elated to have you once more in my life as a friend.  
_

_Yours with fondness,  
Alec Hardy._

Already emotional from the devastating news of her grandmother’s death, any attempt at warding off tears became impossible. She sat on the bed and pressed the paper to her chest, letting his words flow over her. He’d loved her all this time. It felt selfish to find joy in this news, considering her mother wailed with grief down the hall.

Gloria rushed in with an assortment of gowns and frocks in drab colours. “Will these do, lady Hannah? I know this one has fallen a bit out of fashion, but I may be able to bring it up to--oh, dear Hannah.” She tossed the gowns on the chaise, and hurried to her friend’s side. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking; forgive me. I pray for Countess Caroline’s health.”

Hannah sniffled, and took Gloria’s hand. “Thank you.”

“What have you there?”

“What--oh.” Hannah smiled as she wiped a tear. “Alec wrote me, can you believe it?”

“Is it a happy letter, then? Come on, let’s have a look.”

Hannah laughed, and handed over the letter. “It’s sad, but it makes me happy. Look there.” She pointed to a sentence. “He requests a meeting to tell me he loves me, yet the confession is here in the letter already.”

“I knew it. Whenever he clapped eyes on you, it were like he’s found a long lost constellation and the sky’d been imperfect before then.”

“Would he now? Heavens, Gloria. Long lost constellation? You should write that one down, give Shakespeare a run for his money.”

Gloria and Hannah shared a laugh.

“Oh, but did you not notice?”

Hannah pursed her lips. She’d noticed _something_ , certainly, but all this time she thought she’d been off the mark, especially after he’d scorned her at the bridge three years ago.

Gloria settled into reading the letter, and Hannah enjoyed her reactions until she frowned at the end. “We won’t be here, though, ma’am.”

“I could respond straight away to explain our circumstances, and he’ll receive it by the evening post, but I rather hoped that perhaps you’ll meet him in my place?”

“Me, ma’am?”

“He delivered this letter himself, so it would be proper etiquette to match the sentiment, unless I planned a rejection.” Hannah slumped. “Oh, but he probably doesn’t realise that. Regardless, it’s what I wish.” She carefully folded up the letter and tucked it into her dress sleeve. She went to her writing desk and found the sheet of paper she had intended to use yestereve. “I’ll arrange it with Mr. Fenton to give you the day off. I think there’s a play production you wanted to see, is that right? _The Cricket on the Hearth_ , if I’m not mistaken.”

“Oh! Yes, thank you! What shall I say to Mr. Hardy when I deliver the letter?”

“Feel free to explain the situation, and anything else he wants to know he will find written by my hand.” And thus she began to write.

///

_December 28th, 1845 - Saturday_

Hardy held up a hand to politely refuse Rebecca’s offer of another dram of whisky. He had no intentions to inebriate himself to unconsciousness, but instead to simply dull the edge of anxiety. Earlier, he'd endured an immensely important, frustratingly tense, yet ultimately successful, meeting with his superior officer. Tomorrow, he would go to the bridge at the park, and if God was good as they say, Lady Hannah would stand before him in all of her beauty and grace. To see her again with his own eyes, and not have to rely on the ephemeral details of his dodgy memory...

He scrubbed his hand over his face and gazed off at the bottles of liquor behind Rebecca. Amber liquid turned gold in the dimly lit tavern. Hannah’s hair, in pins of silver and pearl, turned gold in the sunlight. Swaths of light and dark draped over her skin just out of the edge of lamplights. The shape and movement of her form ever close, but not enough to touch. The warm, floating sensation of alcohol in his veins may have helped his nerves, but it only made his desires more urgent. The few times he had, in the early days of their friendship, absconded with Hannah into hedgerows and parapets never culminated in anything physical beyond lying side-by-side under stars, or fleeting touches that he rationalised as accidental or innocent. Somehow that made them far more potent.

“What I wouldn’t give to know your thoughts right now, inspector,” Rebecca said.

He snapped out of his trance, passions doused in ice water. “Ehm..” He cleared his throat. “It’s nothing.”

She tilted her head with a playful smirk. “I hope it was about me.” She leant closer to him, her hand slid across the glossy bartop to settle close to his.

Was this woman actually flirting with him? He averted his gaze and rubbed the back of his neck. Maybe in another life he’d ask her out for a stroll, but it was obvious to him that any attraction he could ever potentially feel toward Rebecca stemmed from similarities she shared with Hannah. Fair hair, bold demeanour, elegant eyes. He reached in his pockets and placed a few pence on the bartop.

“No. Thank you.”

The following afternoon, Hardy stood at the bridge with a lump in his throat and a vice in his chest, pressing on his heart. He looked out to the surrounding forest, breathed in the damp, oily scent of the city through the trees to distract himself. The snow had melted swiftly in the unusually warm weather that followed Christmas. Only a few patches remained where it had settled into deeper drifts or had been piled up by shovels. A thin layer of meltwater coated everything, including his shoes and trouser cuffs. Most bothersome after he’d spent the better part of three hours fussing over what to wear. One would think he was off to greet the Queen. He’d settled on a dark blue cravat, one of his nicer frock coats, and a felt hat rather than his uniform.

A woman rounded the bend up ahead, and his spirits lifted. Yet her plain, modest dress marked her as working-class, and though she was comely, her darker complexion and curly brown hair identified her as unmistakably not Lady Hannah. Curiously, however, the woman headed straight toward him, and that’s when he recognised her: Hannah’s maid. A heavy weight fell through his stomach, cleaving a path for numerous other emotions, humiliation amongst them.

“Good morning, Mr. Hardy,” she said with a slight bow. “I’m called Gloria White, Lady Hannah’s maid. Pleased to meet you.”

“Good morning, Miss White.” He returned the greeting with a tip of his hat, though he felt as though he were a puppet, performing the action from muscle-memory and not conscious awareness. If she sent her maid, this could only mean imminent rejection of the polite and dignified sort. He’d almost rather no one show up at all.

“I’m to pass this letter to you.” She opened a satchel in her hand, and withdrew the letter in question. “Lady Hannah regrets terribly that she couldn’t meet you herself, but there’s a family emergency, and she’ll be away for a fortnight or more. Her grandmother has fallen gravely ill.”

“Oh, that’s... dreadful news. I understand, of course.” He retrieved the letter, and stared at the elegant pen strokes upon its surface. His name written by her hand was no substitute for hearing it from her lips, but he no longer felt like a fool. The pit in his stomach re-filled with hope, though to experience even the briefest measure of relief in this situation plunged him back into awkwardness. “Please offer my deepest, ehm, sympathies.”

“I shall, sir.” Gloria tilted her head, eyeing him. “Forgive my rudeness, but why didn’t you confess ages ago?”

“Pardon? How--”

“She let me read it, of course. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do--for a start: Why weren’t you honest with her? Why’d you let her get to the point where she’d open her heart to you only to break it right here on the spot?  What makes you think you’re worthy now?”

Hardy adjusted his hat. His hand trembled, the one holding the letter which he still hadn’t opened. The possibility of a written rejection surfaced, and he turned slightly away from her. “I’ve asked myself those questions and have no valid defense. I was a coward, and most cruel.”

Gloria smiled, and although it was a friendly smile, he couldn’t ignore the edge of scorn in her eyes. “Indeed. But your humility might redeem you.” She nodded toward the letter. “Godspeed, Mr. Hardy.” And with that, she turned to depart.

“...Godspeed.” He watched her go as his mind wandered to the letter and the endless possibilities therein. Rather than agonize over it any longer, he pried up the sealing wax and unfolded the letter, once again, with mechanical, puppet-like movements. At first, he saw nothing but a blur of script through his stinging eyes. He blinked, the cloudiness cleared, and he proceeded to read.

_December 26th, 1845_

_Dearest Alec,_

_Whilst I am indeed surprised to receive your letter, I must confess my simultaneous joy. The only alarm I have is in knowing that you braved the elements to deliver your message. I haven’t forgotten how much you loathe the snow. I simply must know, and forgive the forward nature of this query, but did I see you from my window yestereve? It’s most serendipitous, and filled me with longing for our younger years._

_It is therefore with a heavy heart I must inform you of a sudden illness in my family: my grandmother, Countess Caroline. We haven’t many details, only that she isn’t expected to recover. Therefore, as you no doubt have surmised, I’m unable to meet you. I’m the eldest unmarried daughter, so I must assist my mother with taking care of her. I wish that I could be in two places at once, but alas, I am all the way in Berkshire, at her estate, and for how long, I cannot say._

_Now, on to your letter-- you have already confessed therein that you love me, so who needs bridges? Especially that one with such dreadful heartbreak rushing underneath. Nevertheless, I’m happy that you made this error, for now I will have the news of your love to ease my burdens in the coming days. Are you standing upon the bridge at this moment, reading my words? Are you hoping that I feel the same as you? I cannot merely convey how you’ve affected me over the years with the written word, and so I will await with great impatience for the next time we meet._

_With love,_

_Hannah Baxter_

Hardy’s heart pounded in his chest, forcing the vice open. Relief washed through him, and still a wee bit of fear--he couldn’t possibly be off the hook for his transgression that easily. How long must he wait? A fortnight or more, Miss White had said. How could he possibly wait that long without bursting, without fears returning?  He looked up, overcome with a shock of urgency. Miss White had already reached the stone wall by the bend, so he rushed to catch up with her.

“Wait! Miss White!”

She stopped, and turned to him. “Mr. Hardy?”

“What-- what should I do now?” he asked with heaving breath. “I’ve a mind to-- to head straight away to the train station.”

Gloria tapped her fingers upon her chin with a cheeky smile. “I do believe that’s what she’s requested you to do.”

“What? Really?”

“Read it again, Mr Hardy. A lady never wishes to impose, but will give you all the information you need so that you may come to a decision yourself.”

Sceptical, he skimmed over Hannah’s words. “She knows I don’t understand the way their lot communic—hmm. She’s at Countess Caroline’s estate in Berkshire. Haven’t a clue what that is, but I could inquire when I arrive.”

“There you have it. Now if you please, I’ve a play to attend.”

Hardy bid her farewell, and took another path that led him out of the park and to the constabulary. There, he was met by Ellie in the foyer. She stood from her station with a look of alarm.

“Sir,” she said, incredulous. “Weren’t expecting you in today. Is something the matter?”

“I have to make an urgent trip to Berkshire. How do you feel about leading the investigation in my absence?”

Her eyes widened further. “Me, sir? But--but I’m not even a constable!”

“I know, you aren’t technically, but you’re the best detective I’ve got. It’s temporary, of course, but… what do you say?”

She shook her head in disbelief. “Thank you, but the others, they won’t stand for a woman stepping in to take their job, do you reckon?”

He scoffed at that. “They’re good constables, but lousy detectives. Half of them don’t even think of detective work as real police work, so they’re more likely to be relieved. In any case, the chief superintendent will step in for me on all other matters, so they likely won’t even notice.”

“Bless.”

“Aside from that, I apologise for taking advantage of you all this time. I put my own single-minded mission ahead of the well-being of the entire constabulary.  Here,” he offered her an envelope. “I’ve spoken with the chief super as well about a pay rise closer to a constable’s salary, as opposed to the abysmal wages of a secretary. It’s better, perhaps not by a lot. Has to be officially approved, but...”

She sputtered barely coherent words of gratitude, and stared at the envelope in wonder. “Wh-what's this then?”

“I know your father is unwell, and your son works too-long hours to help pay for all of your expenses. It's a bit of assistance. Maybe it'll cover rent for two or three months. Sorry, it's all I could scrounge at the moment.”

“What!? I-I don't know what to make of this… Thank you seems too plain. It’s good of you, sir, but I’m going to pay you back. What on Earth brought this on?”

“Let's just say I had a terrible night that made me take a long, hard look at my life.”

She squinted. “Did you have a bad dream?”

Hardy loosened the collar of his uniform. “Erm, it wasn't--”

“Aw, you did.”

“--quite that simple. Bah, don't laugh or I'll take back that envelope.”

Ellie smiled and patted him on the arm. “That's more like it. Was worried you’d lost your mind.”

He exhaled through his nose and shook his head. “I'll give you some time off when I return. Godspeed, Miller.” He turned to depart.

“Wait, why in God’s name are you going to Berkshire? I don’t think I’ve ever known you to just set out on a lark like this.”

“To pay Lady Hannah a visit, just as you suggested.”

///

After a surprisingly mesmerizing train ride through the forested lowlands of Berkshire county, Hardy stood before the servant’s entrance gate of the Abernathy Manor, the grand estate of Countess Caroline Abernathy. There were far too many trees to see the home properly, thus he hadn’t a clue how long it would take to walk from this point to the servant’s door.

A pair of servants with baskets full of food supplies approached the gate. They noticed him standing there, and stopped to whisper to each other, their conversation punctuated with barely-stifled laughter. He tried to ignore their twittering, but his ears began to feel hot after overhearing a few of their complements. They couldn’t be discussing him, could they? There wasn’t anyone else in the vicinity. He looked upward to the ancient branches of an oak tree, feigning ignorance.

“Good sir, might we assist you?” One asked over the short distance. “You look quite lost.”

Hardy shuffled his feet. “Ehm, I’m not lost. Uncertain if it’s permitted for me to use this path.”

“That depends on your business here,” said the younger of the two women.

“I’m Inspector Alec Hardy. I’d like to speak to Lady Hannah Baxter, if you please. It’s, ehm… She’s expecting me,” he said, just in time to realise that he hadn’t worn his uniform, which explained their surprised expressions. He searched his pockets for his police badge, and held it up for them to inspect.

“Oh, Heavens. What has that girl done this time?” said the eldest.

Hardy’s eyebrows raised. “This time?”

The younger one, who might’ve been in her forties, elbowed her friend. “It’s improper to speak ill of the family. Judging by his badge, he’s here all the way from London, so it must be extremely important.” She smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear and rolled her shoulders back. “Do come along with us. We shall alert her of your arrival.”

“Aye, thank you.”

He offered to help them with their baskets, and ended up carrying the lot of it all the way up a winding pathway. As he struggled with the cumbersome weight, the two women resumed their conversation. Hardy fell in place behind them, listening out for certain keywords, but not paying much attention on the whole. A stream flowed alongside the path, and disappeared through a dense forest as they reached the neatly-maintained lawn of the property. When they reached the steps that led down to the entrance to the kitchens, the women gathered their supplies from him and bade him to wait for a few moments. He found a bench and sat to rest.

But when a quarter hour became a half hour, and even longer still, he wondered if they’d spoken to Hannah at all. Hardy looked like a bloody fool, sitting there with nothing to do as servants and deliveries came and went. Not to mention, the weather had taken an ominous turn with sharp breezes and looming clouds. The tell-tale scent of frost lingered on the air after a particularly strong gust. Just when he’d resigned himself to seeking out an inn for the night, the door opened, and the house butler peered out at him.

“Inspector Alec Hardy, was it?” said the man.

“Yes?”

“Your presence is requested in the Fairdell Gardens on the eastern lawn. Would you like a guide?”

“Ehm, no thank you. Directions would suffice.” How big could the bloody lawn be?

“Jolly good,” he said, and told him the way.

Hardy tipped his hat in farewell, and followed his directions back to a tree-lined main path, which he walked until he reached a fork. The immense structure of the manor house appeared to be straight ahead through the clearing, and so he took the path to the left to cut through the lawn as the butler had suggested. As he made his way to wherever this path led--hopefully a garden--he held Hannah’s letter in his hand, absently stroking it with his thumb. He looked up apprehensively at the blanket of clouds that held promise for sleet at the very least.

“Do hold off for a bit longer,” he grumbled to the sky. The path forked off once more, and he continued eastward until at last he reached the gardens.

He saw her through the trellis gate from a distance, and stopped in his tracks. Few flowers bloomed in the gardens this time of year, but the brilliant spark of her physical presence made up for it. A burgundy gown left her shoulders and the slope of her neck bare. A fringe-trimmed cape draped from forearm to forearm around her back, and her hair was covered with a beaded burgundy bonnet, long ribbon and ringlets of fair amber hair fluttering in the chilly winter breeze.

Before her stood a Baroque-style fountain with a massive shell, upon which a marble woman poured water from a vase in the centre. It's burble barely drowned out the sound of blood rushing in his ears. Hannah met his gaze across the distance, eyes honey warm, a smile poised on her lips, and he realised that at some point he’d moved closer. So close, in fact, that she stood a mere two feet from him. He hastily removed his hat.

“My lady,” he said breathlessly. His throat had also grown terribly dry, so it could’ve been that, but his hammering heart informed him otherwise.

“My dear Alec,” she replied, her eyes glistening. “How I’ve missed the sight of you.”

“Really?” He tilted his head.

Her brows met, and her smile quivered as she looked him over. “Forgive me, I--I’ve forgotten everything I wanted to say.”

“I’m afraid that I’m much in the same way.”

“We’re quite the pair aren’t we?” She smiled.

“If it pleases you.”

Something flashed in Hannah’s eyes that made his heart quicken. He averted his gaze, overcome with the sharp pang of longing, and a bit of embarrassment at how absurd he sounded.

“That it would. Walk with me? Like we used to.” She gestured with a cant of her head in the direction of a hedge maze.

“Yes, certainly.” He fumbled with his hat as he put it back in place, and then just stood there like a complete arse. The world hadn’t stopped turning, the sky hadn’t fallen, she hadn’t rebuked him with the fury he undoubtedly deserved, she just licked her lips and held out her hand.

“May you lend me the favour of your arm, then?”

“Oh, beg your pardon.” He offered his forearm, which she took without hesitation. They set off down the garden path framed with marvelously arranged greenery.

“Thank you for travelling all this way and for your willingness to meet in this clandestine manner,” she said.

“Anything to be with you,” he said. But that sounded as though he wasn’t entirely satisfied with the circumstances, and that wasn’t so in the slightest. Or did it sound that way? Should he amend his comment? She didn’t appear offended, and she’s not the sort to pretend. Should he ask after her grandmother? He should’ve asked about that long before now. God’s sake, now too much time has passed and it would spoil the mood. She’s ever so close, far closer than she’s been in years.

She caught him gazing at her and gave a bashful smile. “Oh but to live inside your mind, Inspector Hardy. Will you grace my ears with your wayward thoughts?”

“Ehm…” He slowed their pace to a stop right before they were to walk across a small, arching bridge. She faced him, puzzled. The winds shifted and the rustling leaves made quite the clamour for a moment, until at last it settled. Though it had clearly grown even colder. She pulled her cape up around her shoulders, and he lent a hand to assist her. She tilted her face toward where his hand came to a rest upon her shoulder, and her eyes fluttered closed. Ever so gently, he brushed his thumb across the woolen fabric, imagining he could feel her skin just beneath.

“Lady Hannah,” he said. After a deep inhale, he let go and clasped both of her gloved hands in his. She looked up at him, and he found a bit of courage in the manner in which she looked at him. “I could declare my contrition every moment of my life, and I’d still not capture how deeply I wish I’d been honest with you, or hadn’t said those things with the intent to push you away. But what’s done is done. I can only promise you that from this moment forward, as long as you’ll keep me in your company, you’ll never wonder even for a second how I feel about you.”

She squeezed his hands, and he felt her tug him. He took a step forward so that they were far closer than appropriate. “But what of your concern for our incongruous lifestyles?” she asked. “Your love for me may be true, but you said yourself that we walk in different worlds. Such a thing has been known to wear down true love until naught is left but resentment and spite.”

“Yes, but real love would motivate us to work through those struggles, I believe.”

“And what is the difference between real love and true love?”

“I don’t know, I’m not a poet. It just sounded right in my head.”

Hannah laughed. “It sounds right to me, too.”

His heart clenched at the sound of her laughter, and a broad smile of his own emerged.

Hannah’s eyes flicked down to his mouth, and she bit her lip. His brain subsequently erupted into several thoughts at once. Did she want him to kiss her? When was the last time he kissed someone? Tess, probably, before he met Hannah. Had it really been that long? He’d dreamt of kissing Hannah so often that sometimes his mind tricked him into thinking he’d done it already. Surely they must have? No--he’d remember. Nothing on earth could prevent such a memory.

A snowflake drifted down and landed on her bonnet, then another fell, and another. Hannah placed her hand on Hardy’s chest, then slid it upward to his shoulder. At her touch, a tremour went through him, a flare of desire and craving more brilliant than the corona of the sun. Their eyes met. She tilted her face upward. Snowflakes landed in her hair and lashes, and his chest tightened. With heartbeat racing, he cupped her cheek in his palm. Should he ask her first? Oh, but her eyes were closing, her face rose towards his, and that’s the moment every thought in his head finally ceased. He leant forward and their lips met at last.

For several moments, all he could feel was the very point of reality where they connected. Nothing else existed, and he wanted for nothing more, that is until he felt her tongue slide soft and warm against the seam of his lips. He opened, his mouth and his soul and his entire existence, to meld with this woman whom has defined the very nature of love and longing in his life. His arms gathered her to him, and she made the most heavenly sound in the back of her throat. To imagine that there were even more intimate ways of joining with her? And he had absolutely dreamt of those too--of feeling her skin, her body beneath him, her heat surrounding him until the very essence of what made him whole came undone.

Her arms encased him. Her fingertips pressed desperately upon his back, and he groaned into her mouth. His trousers were embarrassingly taut as a result, and she had to’ve felt it, but she persisted. For the first time he realised that all of this meant that she needed him as much as he needed her, and his stupid, foolish comment about real love made so much more sense.

But it had to end, didn’t it? And it did, but not forever. Just for the moment. When he opened his eyes, snow had already begun to dust their surroundings, but they remained remarkably unfrozen. Hannah’s eyes fluttered opened, and her breath clung to the air between them.

“Alec, I love you,” she said, and the very cadence of it, the sound of his name on her lips with those words, kept him completely entangled in the stupour. He made some sort of sound that inspired her laughter. Instead of embarrassment, he just felt utter contentment, like he’d never felt before.

Instead of heading back to the manor as might’ve been more wise, they continued on over the bridge. It had once been a symbol of  impasse, but now it invoked hope. Hardy’s heart would never come down from this. Even as snowflakes clung to clothes and breath froze on the air, they huddled close and delighted in their first of many afternoons together, with love to ever after keep them warm.


End file.
